thoughts without regrets
by FinnFiona
Summary: A few missing moments between the brothers from season five - and the echoes they send back into their past. No slash.


**Author's Note: **I suppose some version of this has been bouncing around my head for awhile now - hope you need more of Team Salvatore as much as I do. (And after the last episode, even if it doesn't stick, how could you not?)

* * *

"Come here, monino," his mother's voice calls out softly from the dim light of her bedchamber, the lilt of her accent warming the nonsensical term of endearment - her favorite, for him.

Damon pulls himself out of the doorway, a small, silent figure padding to her bedside. He isn't meant to be there. Yet now that the midwives have left and Giuseppe has opened a fresh bottle to toast his new son, Damon has dared to venture out from his hiding place in the kitchens.

Relieved as he is that this wasn't another stillbirth like so many before, he hardly notices how tired his mother looks, seeing only the radiance in her features. For her part, Oriana Salvatore smiles down at his sharp, curious eyes, already seeing the hints of fire her family is known for. Without another word she reaches out, tucking him into her side, where he always feels safe.

"This is Stefan," she whispers, nodding to the bundle balanced between long, nimble fingers and bent knees.

"He is very small," Damon says the first thing that comes to his mind, as is a little boy's prerogative.

"Yes," Oriana laughs, light and low, "you will have to protect him."

This makes Damon's nine-year-old ego swell with the pride of anticipation, though he does not – could not – understand the significance of this idea. Not yet. "I will, Mother," he promises anyway, nonetheless genuine.

"Good," he can feel her smile against his hair. "Being the elder brother comes with responsibilities, my little one," she pauses, looking down. "Though not so little anymore..."

Damon only nods, unsure what exactly lays in store for him and his new place in their family, but completely unwilling to let her down.

"You will have to teach him," she answers his unspoken question. She's always doing that. "Teach him how to run far and ride fast, how to fish and hunt, how to be thankful for the sun and not be afraid of the night. Teach him how to grow up strong, and caring, enjoying life."

He senses the importance of her words, even if he does not fully understand them, and nods again with all the solemn acceptance a boy under ten can muster.

Oriana is silent for a time after that, and the heat of the fire combined with the singular security he feels in her care soon has Damon's eyelids unbearably heavy. Just as sleep threatens to take him away, he hears her whisper one more directive into the stillness.

"Teach him how much I love him, as I love you."

In his heart of hearts, he makes her wish a solemn vow, not yet knowing how difficult that road of brotherhood might be. For in that moment, he cannot see how soon life will bear this role down upon his still-narrow shoulders.

And still, within the year, she's gone. And he remains – with a little brother looking up at him.

* * *

"I'll bury the body," Damon shakes Stefan from his reverie. He looks up from Katherine's pale, unmoving form into the hard gaze of his elder brother.

"You don't—" he starts, even as he knows there's no use arguing.

"I do, Stefan," Damon cuts him off anyway, crossing his arms, vision fixed back on the woman who has caused them both such fleeting moments of happiness and so much – too much – grief.

Stefan only sighs, his own gaze drifting back.

"I'm sorry," Damon offers quietly, earning a confused frown. Stefan gets the slightest roll of the eyes in return, so at least his brother hasn't lost all control of his faculties.

"I'm sorry," Damon repeats. "I know you cared about her. And so I know you need _me_ to be wrong about her."

Stefan doesn't respond aloud, though he realizes Damon can see the truth of it in him whether he says so or not – the only one that could. And of course he needs Damon to be wrong. Otherwise, how could it be okay, what he felt for this woman? Compassion or not – complicated, or _not_ – there's more depth there than he cares to admit.

"Maybe I am wrong about her," Damon continues, with more sincerity than Stefan expected. "But you understand why _I_ still need to hate her, right?"

Stefan nods. He understands. And what's more, he knows Damon will hold that bitterness for the both of them, even as it burns.

* * *

_You're my brother. That's all I should have to say. _

* * *

"Damon?" Stefan breaks the silence that has enveloped them, washed itself into the veins of the marble tomb before them, the headstones at their sides.

"Yes, Stefan?" Damon glances down at the boy, the picture of innocent obedience, hands clasped behind his back.

"You're my best friend," he replies, matter-of-fact, no guile at all. All the gravity his five years can muster reflected in those old soul eyes.

Damon puts on a smile, clasps a hand around those small shoulders. "And you are mine, little brother. May it always be so."

Stefan returns to their unspoken vigil just as before, but Damon feels the telltale clenching in his chest. He runs his free hand over the cold stone they watch, unflinching. Traces the letters in their mother's name. That very day's date, only a few years removed.

He hopes, but cannot quite convince himself, that he's making her proud.

* * *

_Brother, hear me now. I'm not giving up on you._

* * *

"How many times do you think we'll be here?" Stefan asks, _here_ meaning staring down at Elena's features – or a face that looks like hers. Here meaning watching over _her_.

Here meaning together, with something in between.

"As many as it takes," is Damon's easy answer. He's always had that.

"You were right about Katherine," Stefan admits after a moment, feeling all over again the blade sinking into her stomach. "She was only looking out for herself."

"Mmmm..." Damon hums, leaning forward. "Yea, maybe. She still had a heart in there somewhere, though, you weren't wrong about that. A small, shriveled, _selective_ one, but..."

Stefan feels the corner of his mouth lift in spite of himself. It fades, his mind turning over his brother's earlier words. "You aren't going to end up like her," he picks up the abandoned thread. "You aren't going to end up alone."

It's Damon's turn to smirk now, though his lack of outright disbelief encourages Stefan to press on. They've all done terrible things, but they're still here. And wanting to stay, to stem the bleeding - that alone sets them apart from Katherine Pierce, who never allowed herself to have anyone worth staying for. Worth being better for. At least, not until it was too late.

"And she was wrong about you, too," Stefan continues, keeping his eyes trained on the girl asleep on his brother's bed. "She didn't make you who you are. She just twisted up what was already there in whatever way suited her. And she _didn't_ teach you how to love."

Damon snorts behind him. "She taught me something. And I let her."

"She might've taught you to accept a pale imitation of love – some shade of the real thing that you thought you wouldn't get anywhere else," he finally meets Damon's eyes, searing as ever. "She wasn't the first or last person to make you think you weren't worth it. And I'm sorry for that, I'm sorry I didn't stop it then or anytime since. But she didn't teach you how to love."

"And how would you know?" Damon's voice is quiet, guarded.

"Because love is learned earlier than some backwards romance. And because someone taught _me_, and it sure as hell wasn't Father, or anyone else in our childhood," Stefan stops, takes a breath. Lets his words sink in, hoping they stick.

Because he thinks it can be different, this time. And he needs it to be different.

Because they're both still here, and he doesn't want to leave.

* * *

By the time Stefan is seven, they have already outlasted eleven governesses – none able to withstand the potent combination of the young Salvatores' antics and their Father's explosive temper. A few women – mostly those interested in Giuseppe's sizable estate – try to exert their maternal influence, but they are driven away, too, when the widower tires of them.

It is just as well, for Damon has nearly unchecked reign in fulfilling his promise.

Under his older brother's supervision, Stefan is fluent in Italian before he can even read English, becomes a good shot, and is galloping an old mare across the fields by age four. Damon even convinces him to spend rainy days in the extensive Salvatore library with little complaint.

And anytime Stefan is sick, it is Damon who sits up with him – takes instructions from the doctor and tells the boy every story he knows. Twice or more, upon request.

In that seventh year of Stefan's life, Damon is the age that will one day mark Stefan's permanent appearance. But he doesn't know that yet, of course, could never fathom it. But it is all too easy to imagine a world without his brother, so when scarlet fever sweeps Mystic Falls, a part of him is afraid – as it always is – that if he leaves Stefan alone he might lose him.

Not that he'll ever admit to it, nor to how much their mother's words have stayed with him. And always will.

Still—"I am not going to sing you a _lullaby_, Stefan"—he has to draw the line somewhere.

"_Please_, Damon," Stefan swipes at his nose pitifully, red eyes pleading. "I cannot sleep."

It really is a shame he will never remember their mother's voice.

"I am not singing," he holds up a hand when Stefan looks ready to protest, "but I will do the next best thing."

His baby brother is too weakened to walk, so with the ready strength of his sixteen years, Damon picks him up – trying not to notice how small his brother's frame is, even for his young age.

He carries him downstairs, hoping not to wake the household. Depositing the boy in the conservatory, he dusts off the rarely used piano and plays a few of Oriana's favorite songs until Stefan seems to fall into a world of better dreams.

"Damon?" Stefan's eyes open suddenly when the playing stops, full of feverish fear until he spots Damon, still seated at the ivories.

With a small smile, Damon picks up the songbook once more. "Not to worry, little brother," he eases into the melody, "I'm not going anywhere."

He plays on, until the sun comes up again.


End file.
